Page 65 of Fate, Interrupted

“You were rowing a boat,” he says to Silas.

“Good deduction.”

Henry shakes his head with the slow satisfaction of someone whose expectations have been confirmed in the best possible way. “I wish I’d seen that.”

“I did,” I say. “It was educational.”

His expression brightens immediately. “I knew it.” He looks at Silas. “I knew you hadn’t been in a boat since the summer at...”

“Henry,” Silas says.

“Right.” He stops, unbothered, and turns to me with the smooth, uncomplicated ease of someone who has been navigating between people his whole life. “Good to see you, Norah.”

“So,” he says, glancing at the basket in Silas’s hand, “this is the famous picnic.”

“Famous,” I repeat.

“Working title,” Henry says easily.

I look at Silas, who has clearly accepted this interaction is going to run its course and is conserving energy accordingly.

“He also packed poetry,” I say.

Henry’s head turns back to Silas with the speed of genuine interest. “Poetry.”

“It was in the basket,” Silas says.

“Did it jump in there when you weren’t looking?” Henry’s eyes are wide with interest.

“He put it in the basket,” I clarify.

“On purpose,” Henry says, in the tone of someone confirming a detail that changes the nature of a story.

“Apparently.”

Silas closes his eyes briefly. “This was a mistake.”

“A Neruda,” I add.

Henry stares at him. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face, different from the earlier grin. It’s warmer—the smile of a man who’s just been handed a compliment he’ll remember. He looks at Silas for a moment in a knowing way, a knowing look passes between them that I don’t have context for and that feels private enough not to reach for.

Then he looks at me, and whatever he was thinking gives way to an uncomplicated smile.

“Anyone who survives a full afternoon on a boat with Silas rowing,” he says, “deserves considerable respect.”

“I rowed perfectly well,” Silas says.

“Eventually,” Henry and I say at the same time.

Henry points at me. “I like her.”

“You’ve known her for a week,” Silas says.

“One third of the time you’ve known her,” Henry says, with the serenity of someone who has no intention of being argued out of anything. He glances toward his truck, then back. He got what he came for. “I should go pretend I came here to fish.”

“You don’t fish,” Silas says.

“I could,” Henry says. “That’s the thing about fishing. The option is always there.”